


Conversations With Sharks (And Biting Back)

by tielan



Category: Stargate SG1
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her father taught her not to let the uniform fool her; USAF social events were just as dangerous as being out in the field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations With Sharks (And Biting Back)

Sam can almost feel the sharks circling.

Polished brass gleams amidst the dense blue of the formal dress uniform that dominates the room. Here and there can be seen a woman in a gown - inevitably, a General's wife, floating like a brightly-coloured flower in a royal blue sea - but everyone else is carefully uniformed.

_Don’t let the uniform fool you, Sammy,_ her father taught her. _It’s just as dangerous as being out in the field._

With a glass of juice in one hand and a fixed smile on her face, Sam moves among the blue-clad officers of this formal event and wishes it was over.

"Am I the only one who feels like we're all waiting for someone to put a foot wrong?"

Sam glances at her superior officer, and feels genuine amusement tint her lips. "I thought that was the point of these events, sir."

Colonel O'Neill's eyes catch hers for a moment and the dark gleam before he turns to greet an acquaintance from earlier days - this man looks considerably older and tubbier than Colonel O’Neill, and the second comment out of his mouth is, _My God! We’re old!_

Sam hides her smile; the Colonel would never admit it, and neither she nor Daniel would ever say such a thing - especially not when Teal’c’s running around at a full century with nothing more than a lifted eyebrow to show his exasperation at the ‘youthful stupidity’ of the Tau’ri.

There's a brief exchange, mostly consisting of a series of questions that Sam could set to song by now: _How's things with you? Where are you working? Family all good?_

The questions inevitably break down after the inquiry after his family, and turn towards her with anxious haste.

"One of my current colleagues, Major Sam Carter, ."

_He’s a tough nut to crack. But a good man._

Their eyes study her for weakness, watch her to see if she flinches. The Air Force is still an old boys' network, and Sam is an intruder, a challenger, an usurper. Her looks are as much of a disadvantage as her father's rank when it comes to being taken seriously as a USAF officer.

"Oh, Colonel O'Neill has his moments." Sam knows this dance of politics and politeness, she’s danced it her entire life. Too diffident, and she'll come off as uppity towards her commanding officer; too enthusiastic, and she'll be assumed to be sleeping with him.

"Damned with faint praise," he says, and the faint curl of a smile suggests he knows the steps of this dance as well as she.

"You'd be suspicious otherwise, sir,” she tells him.

“If you’re trying to flatter me for a better review, you’re too late. I already handed it in to Hammond last week.”

“So I’m free to desert you, sir?”

Peppery brows lower in a mock threat. "There's always next year's review."

"I'll keep that in mind next year, sir." She's spotted someone she wants to talk to, and with an apologetic smile and a muttered apology for the Colonel's old acquaintance, she makes her way over to speak with them.

The dance continues, familiar moves and familiar lines. And occasionally a much-welcomed variation.

_Sam! My God, how are you? What do they have you doing? Do you feel like we're on display? Observe the female officer in unfamiliar habitat. The furtive looks being passed her way by the old guard, the uncertainty as to how to treat her..._

That conversation - no mention of a husband, children or a white picket fence - leaves Sam feeling upbeat - at least until she spots one of her father's cronies heading for her, a barrel-chested giant of a man with as much subtlety in personality as he has in presence.

_I heard your father's out on assignment. What've they found to get the old dog going? You're working on a related project, eh? With George Hammond? What's your husband think of that? Huh. Your father hasn't said anything about this? _

Her father held more progressive views; he had to with a daughter like Sam.

The man means well. Sam tells herself that. However, in his world, women are wives and mothers, they don't have careers and hold down jobs, and a single woman is a waste. The fact that he's some thirty years out of date is irrelevant; that was the way things were, and that's the way things should be.

Out of politeness, and mindful of both her own career and her father's friendship with the general, she dances around the usual answers - her life's rather too busy for anyone else, her father already had grandchildren in Mark's kids, she's not in a rush to marry...

The frown suggests that her words are falling on deaf ears - or, at least, ears that aren't attuned to hearing her. _You're not as young as you were, Samantha._

"But she'll never be as brilliant as she is now," drawls a lazy voice at her shoulder. The words should sound mocking. From his mouth, they don't.

A furrowed brow becomes craggy with annoyance at the interruption by a stranger.

"I don’t think we've been introduced," says the Colonel, so bold that Sam finds herself struggling to hide a smile. "Colonel Jack O'Neill, sir. I'm Major Carter's commanding officer on our current project. Unfortunately for Jacob's unborn grandkids, she's far too valuable to our work right now."

The casual reference to her dad raises eyebrows, and the old man becomes testy as he fences words with the Colonel. It doesn't take too long before he retreats, quite grumpily, and doubtless with the full intent of thoroughly investigating the Colonel's history as well as the project they're working on.

Sam silently wishes him good luck on that; the Colonel's work history is shrouded in enough classification to give the President pause, and the SGC is equally secretive on the official front.

"Sorry about that, Carter."

She slants a glance up at him, amused. "Are you, sir?"

"Nope." There's an insouciant satisfaction in the syllable - the confidence of a man who's both untouchable and uncaring. "At least, not for sending him packing. You don't mind?"

It takes her a moment to realise what he’s saying. He's asking if she minds the rescue.

"No," she says, and means it.

Once, she might have gotten prickly about needing to be helped out of a situation that she probably could have gotten out of - if only by ending the conversation and walking away. Time and experience have taught her that the Colonel doesn't do this to be gallant, he does it because he'd do it for any of his people. And he's asking if she minds, because he knows her.

As they head back out among the mingling crowds, the Colonel touches her arm, a light tap to get her attention. “You know, Carter, whatever you choose, we’re right behind you. You know that, right?”

She does. She doesn’t know how to say it, but she does.

The tight, brief grin he gives her says he understands, and then they’re back out in the social sea, drifting with the currents of conversation, but always watching each other’s backs.

\- **fin** -


End file.
